


The Road Not Taken

by TongueTiedandSqueamish



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M, In which Angelica chooses Hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:57:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6871255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TongueTiedandSqueamish/pseuds/TongueTiedandSqueamish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a winter's ball, Angelica Schuyler makes a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road Not Taken

Angelica Schuyler has a hand half-extended, ready to lay itself on Alexander Hamilton’s forearm and drag him away from the crowd around them and the sweep of the candelight, when she sees her sister’s face across the room. She glances between Eliza ( _helpless_ ) and Alexander ( _never satisfied_ ), and makes a calculated decision.

She leads Alexander deeper into the house, down a hallway, away from Eliza’s lovestruck eyes, while the mob inside her mind spits –

He interrupts. “Where are you taking me?” His smile is coy, lascivious, too sure in his own charms. Oh, she _wants_ , but she presses it down, traps it against her rib cage; her emotions don’t matter to anyone except herself.

“A tour of the gardens. You look as if you need to cool down.” She smiles back the same, because –

 _Now what would Father think? His legacy, falling to shame at the hands of a penniless orphan, because he_ is _an orphan, isn’t he, that gaze is a martyr’s, he’s running out of time from seeing so many lives pass by. But this is not an ordinary orphan, no, not an ordinary man at all, so sharp, he must fashion himself a bayonet but he is much deadlier than a blade: the whip crack of wit, snake and snake charmer in one. He’s penniless, but when most others’ uniforms fall off the owner’s back from disrepair, his is without holes in the middle of a war, the result of not merely desk work but the attention to pretentious detail that defines every aristocrat. A great man stuck inside a poor man’s life. Father will see sense_.

— she doesn’t need to lie. She doesn’t need to fake a polite smile. That is for another time, another possibility, when Alexander asked _Where are you taking me?_ and she replied, _I’m about to change your life_.

“It’s freezing outside,” Alexander protests. “I’ve spent the last five years suffering in the cold.”

“Your bed is so lonely?” she asks, emboldened by the lack of audience as she flings open the door to the garden, flora shivering delicately in their burdensome coats of frost. The wind cuts across her cheek and displaces her in a brief daydream of a battlefield in a tundra, a spyglass in her hands as she shouts orders to a battalion.

He laughs and folds his arms together to brace against the chill. “You know me better than most of my fellows already, Miss Schuyler. By all means, lead the way.”

They loop arms, pressed too close to salvage the pretense of propriety, and walk on. “Let’s talk. You’re charming, Mr. Hamilton, but I –”

_A great man in a poor man’s life. How else to boost oneself up than use one’s natural charm to marry to the social class your soul aspires to? He needs the validation of status, needs the credit, doubling nothing remains nothing and he can’t take spiritual capital to the bank. Our worth is first written in cents and then later in sense, and he knows. Money, there’s plenty enough in the Schuyler house, one less nice dress a year isn’t a death sentence, an intellectual step up outweighs a material step down._

“— am not won over by charm. I read Thomas Paine, the Declaration, the same as you did. I remember when _The_ _Farmer Refuted_ was published, in fact.” The words form tangibly in the wintry night air and linger. His famished countenance bores into her from the corner of her perception, so she keeps her attention forward, thanking the chill for numbing her face and the exposed skin of her neck and collar, thanking the dark for granting them the privacy of invisibility. His arm tightens around hers. “If you cannot stand a woman who has a mind and will pit it against yours, then forget your flirtations.”

“There are too many dullards in the military and Congress for me to refuse fine intelligence.”

“I don’t forgive easily or quickly.”

“If I ever cross you, Miss Schuyler, I’m sure it will end in my shuffling off to heaven from my deserved –”

_Oh, Eliza. “This one’s mine,” you said, but how could you have known his handsomeness hid abandon? Your face, your face was unguarded and vulnerable and you would not have seen his wickedness until you felt the sting of it yourself! You do not deserve that. Your heart is so precious, you cannot let it be toyed with by a man who will never put you first, who will love you with fire and crush you into ash without realizing he has done so, so tied up is he in his own self, his own life narrowed by the blinders of his future prestige. This temporary hurt prevents a lifetime of grieving, sister. He will have you, or he will have me. I would never choose to scorn you unless it were for your own good, and I will make him happy, and myself as well, and suffer the pangs of disappointment when he doublecrosses or forgets, and I will let you see it, my dearest sister, to ease the envy in your too-kind heart. This man is a struggle, but you, you deserve a saint to match your own disposition. Hamilton will be the fire to my fire; your husband will be the earth to your earth. I love you more than anything in this life; I will choose your happiness over mine every time, trust in that truth above all others. This man will make you happy only in fits and bursts, Eliza. He will never be the man you deserve._

“– deathbed. I would hope I am never that ignorant.”

“Alexander,” she says, the first time she does so. It hits the ear in a solid wave, no syllable too hard or too soft but steady, confident, capable, full. “Dance with me?” She looks at him and restrains a quiet cry – his eagerness has melted at the edges into a malleable adoration that molds itself to her in a relief, knowing too much of her already. She reminds herself he is not and never will be a banked fireplace. But chest-to-chest, her head on his breast, arms around each other, she will warm herself by him all the same.

~~~~~

Alexander’s letters are somehow more vivacious than his personal presence. She compares the relentless flourishes of his confessions, descriptions, and bursting declarations of love to the rigorous argumentation in _The Farmer Refuted_ and senses that Alexander views his best self to be that in writing. His voice reigns so clear through the page Angelica can almost feel the warmth of his body at her side, gesticulating here and there with the sharp, pointed sweeps of a fencer. His letters temper his surging intellectualism with the restraining necessity of structure and the limited speed of his quill, summoning the persona of a man pushing himself ever higher, ever higher – an Icarus. Angelica has two opposing desires: to play Daedalus and warn him down, and to join him and together spiral themselves higher. Alexander inspires self-destruction, enables her own impulsivity, inflames every emotion and thought. She begins to write back with the usual polite courtesy, then realizes she has no reason to hide, every reason to hurl herself off the cliff and discover whether she can fly. Opinions – shout them! Uncertainties – flaunt them! Ideals – announce them! Love? Matching his love to her own takes no effort at all. With this flame in her chest, she is prepared for adulation, destruction, fame, infamy, for hate and love and misery and joy, for extremes that test her wit and soul.

Throughout the dizziness of her liberation, Eliza remains at her side, an untalented actor convinced her wobbly smiles are sufficient lies. Neither of them acknowledge the ignored _This one’s mine_. Eliza meticulizes over Angelica’s wardrobe, holding up different dresses and commenting, “Gold brings out the warmth in your skin,” and “This high collar emphasizes the angle of your jaw.” Peggy, bless her heart, is oblivious to the sadness in the world of what-ifs between her elder sisters; they huddle on Angelica’s bed and read aloud every new letter from Hamilton, Eliza squealing like a pig and Peggy communicating mostly through bewildered facial movements.

He visits the Schuylers for dinner a week after the ball, kisses Eliza’s hand and says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Eliza. My Angelica never ceases to sing your praises.”

“Yours already?” Angelica scoffs with a smile, directing Alexander’s attention from how Eliza’s eyes suddenly shine, a soft word away from weeping. “One week, two meetings, a dozen letters, and I’m yours?”

“You began it with your ‘my Alexander’s, if I remember correctly.” He drew closer, taking her hand and kissing it again, though he had already done so before. “A week, a meeting, and a few letters are all I need to know where my affections lie and how fast they’ve been caught.”

Peggy laughs. “You are a peculiar man, Mr. Hamilton.” Hastily, she adds, “If you don’t mind my saying so.”

By the end of the evening, the only person in the room Alexander hasn’t charmed is Father, but Angelica knows the stoicism is feigned out of obligation and pride. He doesn’t want to, but he likes Alexander as much as his wife and daughters, who inflate the young man’s ego and allow him to strut and exaggerate. After he leaves, Father nods slowly and says to Angelica, “You’d do well under him.” (Alexander writes, “Under me? He does know your character, doesn’t he? Any other woman would be under me, I’m sure, but the moment I insinuate the same of you, I’m equally sure you will put me in my proper place.”)

Peggy extols her every unsightly secret to Alexander; Eliza sends tentative, wistful ramblings; Angelica begins writing and sending essays to be critiqued. Eliza shows Angelica every letter, frowns and chides Alexander whenever his speech becomes too fond or familiar. Eliza points at a line of her own reply (“Good sir, you are courting my dear sister, not me.”) and tells Angelica she should be careful with him. Jealousy prickles hot and sick in Angelica’s stomach, as does a hot rush of satisfaction, a confirmation of her own instincts, that every day will be a struggle against herself and against him, that this won’t be perfect, together spiraling themselves higher. The betrayed, smarting looks Eliza gets whenever Alexander blesses Angelica with outrageous superlatives will be worth it. Eliza would never want or need a bramble man like Hamilton. She made the right choice – for the both of them.

A month after the ball, Alexander asks for Angelica’s hand. Father, after an intense moment of scrutiny, gives his blessing. Before Angelica can smile in delight, Eliza breaks down in tears, miserable and grinning at the same time, and they celebrate into the night. Peggy accidentally overindulges and passes out from drink, Alexander spirits away before midnight to return to his war, and Eliza can’t stop sobbing. Angelica and Eliza tuck Peggy into bed, then curl together like children in Angelica’s, Eliza huddled in Angelica’s arms, head buried against Angelica’s breast as the tears continue somehow. Angelica cards her fingers through Eliza’s hair.

The box of Alexander’s letters sits opened on her desk, his letter from yesterday sitting beside it. Angelica remembers how he tore apart essays’ arguments, finding the gaps in her thinking and ripping her thoughts to shreds because no one had permitted her to think to such imposing degrees until now. If it wasn’t for him – she would have married a rich man, she would have tamped down her intelligence to ease the bitterness in her mouth, she would – she would be here in Eliza’s arms, except she would never let her sister guess at the pain in her heart. “Eliza,” she whispers, rubbing her sister’s back. “Eliza, I’m so sorry.”

Eliza pulls back so quick it’s almost a flinch. Her face is streaked red and puffy, her hair stuck to her wet cheeks and her lip quivering, and now a wash of anger transforms her from tragic heroine to vengeful goddess. “Don’t say that!” She grips Angelica’s hand tight in both of hers. “You’re getting married! I know I’m—” She gestures to herself and laughs like she’s running out of air. “But—” She throws herself forward and hugs Angelica around the waist so tight it hurts. “You’re my sister. You’re so much more important than that ridiculous man.”

Tears spring quick to Angelica’s eyes, blurring her vision. “Eliza . . .”

Eliza holds Angelica’s face in her hands and kisses her forehead. “Be _happy_ ,” she insists, Angelica blinking away the tears to see the most fervent, bright expression she’s ever seen on her sister’s face. “That would be enough.”

They fall asleep together, held close and both crying out of relief, happiness – and bitterness, still. For the first time, it occurs to Angelica that her sisters might care about her well-being as steadfastly as she cares for theirs. Those words, _I love my sister more than anything in this life_ , that expanded her chest with responsibility ever since Eliza was born and gave her a purpose whenever she finds yet another locked door, another possibility closed to her in this game of life; they might be echoed in Eliza, in Peggy. She isn’t alone.

The wedding is a few months later. Angelica Schuyler becomes Angelica Hamilton, and when she kisses Alexander, she's unsure any joy could hold a candle to this explosive feeling alighting every sense. That is, until their son is born.

**Author's Note:**

> Angelica Schuyler deserves happiness and I am here to deliver.
> 
> I will most likely do a second part detailing the changes that occur due to Angelica and Alexander's marriage, but I currently have been too irresponsible with my other WIPs, and I'm tantalizingly close to updating one of my stories. But yes, look out for the possibility of a continuation. Or bother me with your own speculations/questions at tonguetiedandsqueamish.tumblr.com


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